


cadaver for a curse

by warmly



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pushing Daisies Fusion, Exes to Lovers, M/M, Minor Character Death, Please read the notes!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27178837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmly/pseuds/warmly
Summary: In fine print, probably:If you bring your ex back from the dead, that's on you!
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei
Comments: 19
Kudos: 92





	cadaver for a curse

**Author's Note:**

> there's a lot of discussion of death in this fic without like... actual character death (except for one of a minor original character!), but the idea of death in general is discussed at length throughout the story due to the nature of the au. also extensive use of a hospital setting in a few scenes and discussion of one of the main characters being in a coma/unconscious!
> 
>  **about the au** / pushing daisies is a dope television show featuring a main character that can bring the dead to life with the touch of their hand! i took some creative liberties and stretched the general source material to make it better suit my idea, so you don't need to know the series too intimately to understand the fic.

"I don't get it," Iwaizumi says, his voice fuzzy over the phone. He sounds a little disgruntled (or _a lot_ disgruntled), and ordinarily, this wouldn't really bother Matsukawa, but _today_? "I seriously don't get it. Are you out of your god damn mind?"

Matsukawa buries his face into his free hand. _Today_ , even Matsukawa doesn't "get it." And he sure doesn't have a logical answer or explanation for Iwaizumi. He doesn't even have a witty quip ( _RED ALERT_ ), and the only thing he can manage right this second is a low groan. 

"I don't know how to make this any clearer to you, Iwaizumi," Matsukawa says, pressing his back against his bedroom door and sliding down, the strength in his legs (or lack, thereof) betraying him. "What more do I need to say?"

"You said, 'I brought my ex-boyfriend back to life from the dead,' and then, 'I think.'"

"Yes. Which is what happened."

Iwaizumi doesn't say anything for a few seconds. He makes a frustrated little noise. "You really don't—you don't see a _single_ problem with what you just told me." Another frustrated noise. "I mean, I _know_ you and this still sounds ridiculous." 

Matsukawa leans back, his head hitting the door behind him. He does see a couple of problems. Maybe more than a couple. He might be seeing a lot of problems. Maybe even a _laundry list_ of problems, but—

"Well," he attempts.

"Good luck," Iwaizumi interjects, sounding very much done with the conversation—which, as cruel as it is, Matsukawa doesn't blame him for. "Maybe now that he's here you can tell him why you ghosted him."

"Nice pun."

"Wha— _it wasn't a pun_." 

"Hey." Matsukawa hears a voice first and then the gentle rapping of knuckles against the door second. His stomach sinks, a little bit, because in the daze of this conversation and trying to explain the happenings of this morning to someone who might (emphasis on _might_ ) pity him, he'd forgotten—only for a second—that the ex-boyfriend he'd presumably brought back from the dead was sitting in his living room. And now, also presumably, at his bedroom door. "You there?"

"Oh my fucking god, you were _serious_ ," Iwaizumi hisses through the phone. Matsukawa hangs up abruptly.

"Yeah?" Matsukawa replies, instead, to Hanamaki. 

"Are you good?" 

Technically, no. But Hanamaki can't know that. "Yeah." Matsukawa drags a hand down his face in muted agony. "Just dandy." 

* * *

Affliction (n.), something that causes pain or suffering. Similar words include malady, trouble, thorn in one's side, _one's cross to bear._

He's only seven when it happens the first time.

Matsukawa calls it _The Case of the More-Orange-Than-Gold Goldfish_ , a lavish, maybe too-honest title for the incident in which a definitively dead (or definitively _dying_ ) pet goldfish he'd received for his birthday flops to life in the palms of his hands. It's a distinct memory because 1) it's the only leverage he has over Iwaizumi, who is otherwise incapable of wrong, because Iwaizumi is the sole cause (or at the very least, harbinger) of poor, poor Mikan's death, and 2) goldfish are simply incapable of playing dead. 

(It's leverage, but really, the tables have turned. Iwaizumi reminds him on the daily after all that if it hadn't been him wanting to test the tenacity of a goldfish by subjecting it to a man-made hurricane, then _"You wouldn't have known you had the_ gold _en touch." "Nice pun." "It's not a pun—"_ )

The second time, he’s fifteen and it gets a little more serious.

On their way home from school, he and Iwaizumi stop by the convenience store by their apartment building. They're bickering about which flavor of freeze-pop tastes the best melted when Iwaizumi skids to a stop at a swung-open door, blood draining from his face. It's their grumpy old neighbor, sprawled out in the entryway of his apartment. They spend too much time arguing about whether he's actually _deceased_ ("Is he dead? Or is he _dead_?") before Iwaizumi sprints to his own apartment to fetch his mom, only for the ambulance sirens to wail right as a defunct heartbeat stutters to life at Matsukawa's trembling touch. It's _The Case of Old Man Hirozawa, and Also Semantics - Sorry Iwaizumi_. 

The ambulance doesn't come for nothing, though. Someone collapses two blocks away just minutes later. A heart attack, Matsukawa hears. Instantaneous death—because you can't cheat the circle of life. 

There are a couple of more accidents after that before Matsukawa realizes that this mysterious affliction of his isn't really a problem as long as he, well, _avoids death_. He starts taking notes on himself. It's a tactile thing; only works if he touches someone or something skin-to-skin. It isn't limited to the dead either; _dying_ things and people traipsing the fine line between the realm of the living and the realm of the not-so-living are just as susceptible to his golden touch. If a dead person comes back to life and stays alive, then someone else nearby will die to replace them. And if a dead person comes back to life and he touches them again, they'll stay dead: forever.

So, in simpler words, it's insane.

Everything about his life is perfectly normal, entirely mediocre—except for this _one thing._ And this _one thing_ almost always ends up being just that: a malady, a trouble, a thorn in one's side, and Matsukawa's cross to bear. 

He's been pretty good about keeping everything under control. After all, it's not difficult avoiding dead people and he's grown into the habit of wearing gloves when he's wary for whatever reason too.

That being said, he isn't sure how this— _this_ —happened. 

_This_ being his ex-boyfriend of the only serious long-term relationship Matsukawa's ever partaken in (well, right up until the point when he might have panicked and hightailed it out of Tokyo and back to Sendai) comatose one second and wide-awake, bright-eyed, and ready to check out of the hospital the next. Well, Matsukawa _knows_ how it happened, technically (he still remembers the trembling in his fingertips as he'd reached out, gingerly, to draw Hanamaki's hand to Matsukawa's lips), but he hadn't anticipated that the injuries were so serious that Hanamaki wasn't quite dead, but close to dying. 

(If given the choice, Matsukawa wouldn't have signed up for this kind of headache. Bringing the dead back to life isn't first, second, third, or one-hundredth on the list of superpowers Matsukawa would want if he could choose. But he couldn't. Can't. It's his _cross to bear_ and sitting here, across from a face he hadn't been anticipating seeing, dead or alive, he has to wonder if he's forgetting something critical. For example, maybe in a past life, he signed some shady contract exchanging half of his soul for the souls of too many. In fine print, probably: _If you bring your ex back from the dead, that's on you!_ )

Hanamaki explains that he'd been on a crosswalk, trying to figure something out on his phone when a flashing light distracted him, the sound of a truck honking echoing in his ears, and then?

Well.

They both know what happened after that. 

"I think it'd be best if we parted ways sooner rather than later," Matsukawa says, evenly. Now that he's emerged from his bedroom and abandoned all attempts at getting Iwaizumi to be his voice of reason, Matsukawa has to be his _own_ voice of reason and he knows all too well that it'd be a disaster if he accidentally touched Hanamaki again. The gloves he's wearing feel remarkably out of place when Matsukawa is technically supposed to be in the safety of his own home. He hopes Hanamaki doesn't comment. "For your own sake, I mean."

"Oh, yeah," Hanamaki says, and aside from a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes, his expression is relaxed, unperturbed. "Wouldn't want to intrude."

"You're—" _not intruding_ , Matsukawa bites back. This isn't how their first conversation after months, almost a whole year, apart was supposed to go. He was going to ask how Hanamaki's been, what he's been up to, whether he still hates his frustrating desk-job that makes him work overtime unfailingly. Wanted to ask if Hanamaki's been taking care of himself, if he's happier now than he was when Matsukawa left him. 

More importantly, if he felt the same—

"Do you know anything about the accident?" Hanamaki asks, interjecting before Matsukawa can say something stupid. "This is going to sound crazy, but I can't really figure out who I'm supposed to be believing."

Matsukawa still. "What do you mean?"

"Uh, how do I say this... What I know about the accident is that it was really bad, that I had some serious injuries—to the point that no one really thought I'd wake up." Hanamaki frowns, brows furrowing as he tries to parse through the right words to express just how he's feeling. "But then I woke up, just like that. And nothing hurt. Nothing _hurts_. Feels like I woke up from a nap or something. Was it actually serious?"

"Oh." 

He isn't sure what to say. There are still small cuts and bruises littering Hanamaki's face and the visible parts of his body, a gauze bandage stuck to his forehead where a deeper wound lingers—but nothing to warrant staying in the hospital any longer than he has to, now that he's awake. The physician had been confused too; spent hours poking and prodding at Hanamaki before admitting, clearly puzzled, that there was no reason for him to stay when he was _doing fine_. 

He knows it was serious. Knows Hanamaki was on the verge of death, because otherwise he wouldn't have woken up to the faintest of Matsukawa's touches. 

"I'm not sure," Matsukawa settles on, drumming his fingertips against the dining table once. He stares at a ring stain, flattening his hand over it. It might be one Hanamaki left behind, back when they— "I wouldn't worry about it," he continues. The words feel thick and awkward falling from the tip of his tongue. Matsukawa knows he should tell Hanamaki the truth, the _whole truth_ , but the thing is that death is fickle. He has no way of knowing how each individual person on the planet deals with it, with grief, with loss, with the idea of mortality. He doesn't want to complicate this any more than he has to. As long as Hanamaki disappears and they never cross paths again, they don't have to talk about it. Hanamaki can have his second shot at life and Matsukawa can re-learn how to swallow his guilt. "It's getting late. You should—"

"Get going?" Hanamaki finishes the sentence for Matsukawa, a faint smile lingering in the curve of his eyes. "Yeah, you're right. Parents are probably worried sick." 

"You're in Sendai to see your parents?" Matsukawa asks. 

"Kind of. Came for my mom's birthday, but I thought I'd spend some more time with them while I was here. I'll probably head back to Tokyo in a few weeks." Hanamaki rises from his seat, grabbing the jacket Matsukawa had lent him at the hospital instinctively before realizing, a second too late, that it isn't his. His is probably discarded by now, given it'd been tattered, dirtied, and bloodied all in one. Hanamaki drops it, lets it drape over the back of the chair again. "Thanks again." 

"Take it," Matsukawa urge.

"It's not too cold outside."

If the situation were any different, the circumstances better, Matsukawa might have pulled the coat over Hanamaki's shoulders himself. But he's cautious, now; his touch isn't just a touch anymore. 

"Take it," Matsukawa repeats, mustering up a small but perceptible smile. "It's fine." 

Hanamaki hesitates before curling his fist around the fabric of Matsukawa's coat. Once, a long time ago, Matsukawa thinks he might have made the same gesture. Maybe even with the same jacket. "Don't expect it back," Hanamaki jokes, cracking a crooked grin. His knuckles are white. Neither of them comment on it. 

"Safe trip home."

"Yeah, maybe I'll see you?" 

Matsukawa bites the inside of his cheek. 

The truth: It's better for the both of them but especially Hanamaki if they don't. _See each other_ , that is. From this point onward, the happiest ending is one born from them walking parallel paths indefinitely. Matsukawa's okay with that. He has no choice but to be okay with it, and he is. Really. 

Hanamaki looks at Matsukawa imploringly, his grip relaxed but the faint consternation in his features already tugging at Matsukawa's tangled heartstrings. 

"Sure," Matsukawa says, his lips and his tongue betraying the more rational part of him. "Good night." 

The relief that seems to flood Hanamaki's face draws a smile out of Matsukawa against his better judgment. 

"Good night." 

Truth: If he's not okay with it yet, he will learn to be. 

(Truth: Some things are impossible to learn.) 

* * *

The scariest thing about death is that it's permanent. 

Even to a person like Matsukawa, death is scary because it's _forever_. Even if he brings someone back, keeps them alive, the fact is that someone else will replace them. " _And I know you don't want that_ ," Iwaizumi tells him, matter-of-fact as always, when they're sixteen and passing Old Man Hirozawa's apartment while he's pruning his money tree and Matsukawa stiffens, visibly, knowing the very picture ought to be a fallacy. " _Not again._ "

Old Man Hirozawa becomes nicer after his death scare. Doesn't raise his voice as much. Doesn't stare disapprovingly at him or Iwaizumi when they sprint down the halls. He looks more tired, honestly; resigned, and when he passes away (again) just two years after Matsukawa accidentally brings him back, Matsukawa imagines the old man must have breathed a sigh of relief. _Finally_ , he must have thought. _I can finally let go of this world._

Two blocks down, the someone who took Old Man Hirozawa's place. Matsukawa hears it was a frail old lady. The rumor mill—because the aunties at the mart always want to talk things to death—says it was inevitable because _she missed her late husband_ after all. Matsukawa doesn't delve into it. It might be his place to, but the guilt of just knowing that permanence will never be avoidable in this specific scenario clings to him like a film. It makes him feel like he's been caught in a web of some sort. 

It's been years since the last time he did _it_. Matsukawa had almost convinced himself it didn't work anymore, the magic touch. 

But a week ago, Hanamaki had stuttered back to vitality as soon as Matsukawa pushed his way past hospital staff to draw Hanamaki's hand to his lips. Half a day later, he'd asked, " _Was it actually serious?_ " 

If Matsukawa had been honest, he might have explained the kind of cold chill that courses through your veins when you get a phone call, asking if you _know someone_ you're not supposed to think about anymore. " _Your contact information was pulled up on his phone at the scene of the accident_ ," the caller, who says they're affiliated with a hospital, explains. " _He's in critical condition_ —"

If Matsukawa had been honest, he might have admitted that the second he heard, he dropped everything to rush to the hospital. That the second he got to the hospital, he abandoned reason and logic to push through to get to Hanamaki's side. That the second he got to Hanamaki's side, it was like every sensible thought dissipated in Matsukawa's mind and the only thing he could do was reach out, touch him, to try to convince himself that the lingering warmth in Hanamaki's hands were just warm _enough_ to crave the sun come tomorrow morning—to crave it so badly that Hanamaki would open his eyes. 

If Matsukawa had been honest, he might have admitted that the second he clasped Hanamaki's scratched-up hand in his own, felt the dull thud of a heartbeat hidden in Hanamaki's wrist stutter vivaciously, he knew he'd done something cruel; that someone else might have slipped closer to death at the expense of Hanamaki slipping away. 

If he closes his eyes, he can still remember the warmth of Hanamaki's hand in his. It's something that soothes him but stings at the same time. It's something he can't replicate. Not the way he wants to, at least. Going forward, it'll never be as simple as that. 

"Mister Eyebrows! Are you going to come back next week?" a little boy asks, cutting straight through Matsukawa's errant train of thought as he clings to the edge of Matsukawa's shirt with a tiny fist. He stares up at Matsukawa imploringly, looking incredibly determined even when Matsukawa knows the kid's probably past-due for a nap.

What started as an attempt to atone for things he couldn't quite pinpoint has turned into a little refuge. Where he can, he'll devote his time and energy to better people, but only to people he can help without inadvertently hurting, too. 

"Maybe," Matsukawa replies, his lips curling into a small smile. He places a palm, gloved, atop the boy's head. "If you listen to the nurses well this week."

"I always do!" the boy huffs. 

Eventually, the crowd of kids he'd been reading to swarms around him to ask the same questions. Will he come back next week? Will he bring the books for him to look at? Will he stay for longer? 

By the time he placates them enough for the nurses to be able to start corralling the children back to their respective hospital rooms, the knot that's always sitting at the very base of Matsukawa's heart loosens a little bit, easing minutely as he exits the playroom. 

"Popular as ever," a familiar voice says in greeting, right outside, and Matsukawa doesn't have to look to see who it is—but he does anyway, meeting Hanamaki's gaze with a practiced ease despite the traitorous thumping of his heart. "Do you do this often?" 

"Are you hitting on me?" Matsukawa asks, teasingly. He jams his hands into his pockets, mindful to keep a comfortable distance between them as they walk, seemingly in the same direction. "I'm flattered. What's next? _Do I come around here often?_ "

"You think I'm the type of person to make a move in front of children?" Hanamaki flattens his gaze, feigning offense. The furrow between his brows disappears almost instantly. "Don't you know me better than that?" 

He does.

But neither of them need to be reminded. 

"Is everything okay?" The shock of their initial encounter wears off when Matsukawa realizes there must be a reason why Hanamaki's at the hospital. He angles his neck to get a better look at Hanamaki, gaze sweeping over his body once. Nothing seems to be off. He's walking fine, too. "Check-up?"

"You don't look half as pretty when you frown like that," Hanamaki jokes. "Yeah, it was just a check-up. Doc wanted to make sure it wasn't a fluke." He must catch the way Matsukawa fidgets. "It wasn't a fluke. I'm _actually_ healthy." 

"That's good." Matsukawa fixes his gaze forward, racking his mind for what the intuitive next step from here could be. Should he make an excuse and slip away? With the way he feels like his defenses are wavering with each passing second spent in Hanamaki's company, that'd probably be a good idea. But he doesn't act on the thought. Instead: "When are you heading back to Tokyo?" 

"You know," Hanamaki starts, letting out a pensive _hm-mm_ as his attention flits from the side of Matsukawa's face to the hallway walls, the light fixtures, and then forward. "I'm not happy with you." 

Matsukawa blinks, mouth pressed into a pensive line. He parts his lips to ask _what do you mean_ , but the words fall short just as they creep to the tip of his tongue. Instead, he bites the inside of his cheek. "That makes sense," he says, assuming Hanamaki's still hung up on the less than graceful way that their relationship ended. If he were in Hanamaki's shoes, Matsukawa figures he'd probably be a little upset too, even when a year's gone by. It's not every day that someone disappears just twenty-four hours after they say _I love you_ , after all. "Would it make you even angrier if I apologized?"

Hanamaki snorts. "Not talking about the breakup," he says. "Though that was pretty shitty of you too." 

"Then what?" 

Slowly, deliberately, Hanamaki stops walking. He doesn't move, only waits for Matsukawa to follow suit (which he does, inevitably). Matsukawa turns around, his expression habitually neutral, though there's a glint to his eyes that's probably asking a question—and Hanamaki can probably decipher what it is. They stand like that for a few passing seconds; seconds that feel like eternities. The sullen pout on Hanamaki's lips ebbs into a brighter grin, something Matsukawa used to think he'd only chase in his dreams going forward. 

This entire scenario should feel forbidden to him. 

"C'mon," Hanamaki urges, still grinning. "You don't have anything nice to say to me? After all this time?" 

It's just like Hanamaki to stumble into Sendai without abandon, getting hit with the worst luck only to be met with the best luck (if Matsukawa can call himself that) in the same breath. It's just like Hanamaki to flounder with obstacle after obstacle and still focus, honestly, candidly, on simpler things. 

Stupidly, Matsukawa thought their reunion would be their last. 

Gratefully, it wasn't.

(Selfishly, he hopes this one isn't either.) 

"Don't be stingy now," says Hanamaki. He jams his hands into the pockets of his jacket—Matsukawa's jacket—and skips a step as he passes Matsukawa, their shoulders, thankfully clothed, bumping. He lifts a hand then, making some ornate twirling gesture that seems to be telling Matsukawa to _say it, quickly now_ , and Matsukawa doesn't need to see Hanamaki's face to know he's wearing a shit-eating grin. 

The rational part of him wants him to take a step back. Right now— _run_.

But he stays rooted into place. Finds himself stumbling behind Hanamaki, following him like a moth drawn to light. Because relationships don't always end because the flame fizzles out. Sometimes they end for other reasons, and those other reasons don't necessitate a change of heart. 

A year is long but short. Not enough time has passed for Matsukawa to pretend like he isn't wrapped around Hanamaki's finger. 

"Hey," Matsukawa calls out, and the succeeding words spill out so quickly that he can't tell if they're asphyxiating or alleviating: "Missed you."

Not a lot of things in life are permanent. But some things leave scars so fundamentally deep they might as well be. 

And sometimes, that's not a bad thing.

"Yeah, yeah," Hanamaki replies, the hand he'd been waving finding purchase in his coat pocket again. The tips of his ears are suspiciously pink and Matsukawa has to bite his tongue to refrain from saying anything. "Took you long enough." 

* * *

Iwaizumi throws a balled up napkin at Matsukawa.

"That's rude," Matsukawa says, mildly.

" _You're_ rude," Iwaizumi retorts, brows furrowed. "What the hell. _Tell_ him." 

Since his panicked phone conversation with Iwaizumi the night Hanamaki accidentally rose from the dead (or _almost_ dead, because semantics are important), Matsukawa hasn't been able to update Iwaizumi on the developments in this (frankly speaking) escalating sitcom.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki run into each other a couple of more times after the second hospital encounter. It's funny, really, that growing up, they never knew each other—only realized they were both from Sendai after they started dating—but now that they're here, in the same space, and have no reason to seek each other out, it's like the world is pitying them. _Go on_ , some cosmic force seems to say. _Fall into each other's orbits._

"You told him you missed him," Iwaizumi says, like Matsukawa doesn't _know_. "You ran into him, what, three times after that. By _chance_. All of these opportunities to say something and you haven't said shit." 

Iwaizumi isn't wrong.

But he doesn't get the full extent of the situation. 

"How do you think he would take that?" asks Matsukawa, leaning his chin against the open palm of his hand. "How do you recommend I go about telling him?" 

"I don't know. 'Hey Hanamaki, long time no see. Turns out I'm still hung up on you. Would love to kiss you but as it turns out, I might send you straight into a coma again if I do.'" Iwaizumi pauses. His expression twists into something a little more thoughtful. "Okay, I see why you might have hesitated." 

Matsukawa stifles a laugh in spite of the turbulence _he's_ been warding off since everything started unraveling. Even if it were easy, he isn't sure if it'd make a difference. He'd still hesitate to tell Hanamaki the truth, because there's a part of Matsukawa that doesn't think he's supposed to be sharing his cross with others. Iwaizumi's an incidental casualty, but their years together have made it easier to come to terms with the fact that even those afflicted with the worst of maladies deserve to have a crutch. 

He's never told anyone himself. It's never felt necessary. 

"He'll leave soon," Matsukawa says, a feeble attempt at convincing Iwaizumi and himself. "Everything will be fine after that." 

"I don't think that's how it works," replies Iwaizumi. He narrows his eyes. "This isn't just about Hanamaki. I know how you are. You'll get in your own head about all of this too. I might not know how you should go about it, but I do know it'd be better if you were honest with him." The chiding tone Iwaizumi's been wielding like a sword whittles into something a little softer, more considerate, when he adds, "I know he wouldn't resent you for it."

"That's not the problem." He's okay with being resented. But then again—he isn't really sure what the precise problem is, otherwise. Only knows that there is one; there _has_ to be. It's just hard to put a name to it, easier to attach a face. 

"Yeah, sure, sure," Iwaizumi sighs out. "That's what you always say when it is the problem." 

He's made it a habit to wear his gloves out in public ever since he kept bumping into Hanamaki. Maybe that should be indication enough that whatever's happening right here, right now, is something to be afraid of. If he's going out of his way to accommodate their collisions rather than going out of his way to avoid them altogether, what does that say about him? About _them_? 

Idly, Matsukawa twirls his straw in his drink, a strange sort of bitterness filling his throat the sight of his bare fingertips. 

(Affliction (n.)— _one's cross to bear_.)

"You can tell him," Iwaizumi repeats, his gaze level when Matsukawa lifts his head to meet it. "Geez, don't you feel stuffy not being able to explain why you can't touch him?"

Matsukawa smiles. "There's already a reason for that," he says, and it's the same reason why they needed to be reunited in the first place. "He and I both know it, too." 

* * *

The last text message he sees from Hanamaki before he blocks his phone number and runs away, back to Sendai, is: _I feel like you're not telling me something important._

Matsukawa unblocks his number in the morning, wondering distantly if it's karma that's been curling around his ankles, keeping him rooted in a place swarming with emotions that he used to think he'd moved on from. It's supposed to be a ritual, or something—a sign to the deities that he's okay now, _really_ , he's moved on, so they can stop trying to interfere.

And, for a second, he thinks it's worked. It's already evening and he hasn't seen Hanamaki in a week. Maybe he went back to Tokyo, or better yet, maybe Matsukawa's been imagining him all along. 

Stupid, fruitless thoughts fill his mind as he peers at the produce offerings in the mart on his way home, reaching for something only to falter when a hand that doesn't belong to him beats him to it. 

"Ordinarily, I'd be a gentleman and let you have it, but I need it today," none other than Hanamaki says, sounding the furthest thing from apologetic as he offers Matsukawa an extremely unconvincing jut of his lower lip. He hugs a package of strawberries, the last at the market, to his chest defensively, like a sullen child. "It's my mom's birthday tomorrow." 

Something traitorous, like relief, fills Matsukawa's ribcage at the sight of Hanamaki's face. He doesn't name it, the feeling—the balloon. He just lets it float, uncomfortably taking space in his chest. "You can have it," Matsukawa says. Belatedly, he's glad he wore his gloves. 

Hanamaki's shoulders relax instinctively and he lets out a low whistle. "Well, if you give up that easily, it'll feel like I bullied you."

"As long as you know." 

"Ha-ha, hilarious." Hanamaki rolls his eyes good-naturedly inspects the strawberries once. "Hey, would you eat a cake I decorated? Be honest with me. If I said, 'Happy birthday! I decorated it myself!' would you feel like your life was in danger?"

Surreptitiously, Matsukawa takes a look at the items in Hanamaki's basket. Whipping cream, a wide array of fruits, even some chocolate pens. He reaches in to pick up a canister of offensively multi-colored sprinkles. "Do you need these?" he asks. 

"Avoiding the question, huh. Coward." Hanamaki grabs the sprinkles from Matsukawa's hand. "It might not be obvious to you, but I'm winging this."

Matsukawa bites back a smile. "Not obvious at all." 

"C'mon, answer the question." 

Hanamaki's not the worst cook in the world, unless his skills have deteriorated rapidly in the past year, at least. Matsukawa presses his lips together. "No. I think I'd eat a slice." 

The expression on Hanamaki's face sours, and Matsukawa realizes he must have given the wrong answer. "Just a slice?"

"Two?" Matsukawa attempts.

"Whatever, I'll take it." Hanamaki drops the sprinkles into Matsukawa's basket. "By the way, what's with the gloves? Don't your hands get hot?" 

"Are you giving me these?" Matsukawa asks instead of acknowledging the more specific, and probably more pressing question. 

"Yeah. Help yourself. They're shaped like hearts." He jerks his chin in the general direction of Matsukawa's hands. "The gloves," he repeats.

He doesn't want to lie, but at this point, it's more of a survival instinct than anything else. At the back of Matsukawa's mind, a caricature of Iwaizumi is crossing his arms against his chest angrily and glaring at him for not acknowledging this as an opportunity, either. _Tell him!_ he seems to grouse. Matsukawa ignores he. "Just don't like touching things," he says, hoping that's explanation enough. "Nothing special." 

"You never wore them when—" Hanamaki trails off, a little too abruptly. Neither of them chase the topic. "Uh, anyway. You free right now?" 

Matsukawa turns the little jar of sprinkles over in his hand, inspecting them. "Yeah?"

"Great." Hanamaki grins. He brightens. "My parents are out until tomorrow. Come help me decorate the cake." 

Back when Matsukawa was fifteen, hands shaking as he felt Old Man Hirozawa's hand flood with warmth after being _ice-cold_ , he convinced himself that there was another reason, aside from _all of the obvious_ ones why he shouldn't take this curse for granted. Old Man Hirozawa was never the same afterwards. Grew quieter, tireder, softer—and not in the good, gentle way, but in the resigned way, like he was waiting for something he thought he'd already claimed. Witnessing someone come to life but only living with half the vitality had been a punch to Matsukawa's gut. Knowing that someone else had died just for half a soul to return to this one old man subject to a reckless child's touch? He still isn't sure if he's made peace with it.

But here, even in the harsh fluorescent glow of the grocery store, the indistinct clamor passersby and the scraping of shopping carts an unpleasant din, Hanamaki looks so _alive_ that Matsukawa has to remember that if he wants this picture to stay, if he wants to _keep_ it, he can't reach out and touch him to check the truth for himself. 

The grin on Hanamaki's face doesn't falter.

Matsukawa's resolve does. "Sure." 

* * *

Hanamaki should be angrier with him. 

There's a laundry list of reasons why Hanamaki should still be angry with Matsukawa. 

( _One_ , for ending the relationship almost immediately after he finally mustered up the nerve to say 'I _love you_.')

"Oh shit, this is going terribly," Hanamaki grumbles, squinting at the cake, delightfully lopsided, as he tries to salvage a leaning tower of fruit that is definitely excessive for a middle layer. He sticks his tongue out the corner of his mouth, squatting a bit at the counter to try to get a better look at the damage he's caused to no avail. "I just thought the more vitamin C the better... To really hammer home a 'I'm a good, filial son and I care about your health!' message." 

( _Two_ , for panicking even after they managed to tie loose ends semi-smoothly post-breakup. For running away, recklessly, and believing that it'd be enough.)

Matsukawa reaches over Hanamaki's head to grab a handful of fruit, the plastic glove he's wearing crinkling loudly as he tries—with much futility—to make a last-ditch attempt at salvaging the cake. He dumps it into a proximal bowl, ignoring the lingering warmth where the back of Hanamaki's head was pressed against Matsukawa's torso. "Being greedy isn't cool."

"You wouldn't know filial piety if it punched you in the face," Hanamaki sighs out. 

( _Three_ , for dragging Hanamaki awake, and right into circumstances that would never allow them to really make amends the way Matsukawa wishes they could.)

The cake looks terrible. And had he known it'd look like this, Matsukawa might not have offered to eat two slices of it, even hypothetically. Still, the concentration emanating from Hanamaki's hunched figure almost makes up for it. It'd probably be hard to turn down a second slice knowing how much powdered sugar Hanamaki's accidentally gotten in his eye during this strenuous process.

Hanamaki places the top layer of cake over the barely cohesive middle layer of cream and fruit (a _lot_ of fruit, at that). "It doesn't look that bad, right?" he asks, gazing expectantly at Matsukawa.

( _Four_ , for clinging to the circumstances and letting them color his each and every judgment.)

There's a speck of cream at the corner of Hanamaki's mouth and without thinking, Matsukawa reaches out to wipe it away. His thumb lingers there. Even through the plastic covering his hand, he can feel that warmth, again, and it burns. 

"Hey," Hanamaki mutters.

Their eyes lock. It's like the world is spinning too quickly and not at all at the same time. 

( _Five_ , for forgetting the circumstances. Once, twice, too often, because it's _too easy_ to around Hanamaki.)

Hanamaki's hand curls into the lapel of Matsukawa's shirt and they're just two breaths away from _too late_ when Matsukawa remembers that this time, _this time_ , a simple kiss won't be just that. 

He can feel the warmth of Hanamaki's lips against the gloved palm of his hand, an instinctive, knee-jerk attempt at mitigating the situation. Bitterly, he notes that this is the closest thing they'll ever get to a kiss in this lifetime, isn't it? 

Matsukawa jolts backwards, his entire body shaking, eyes widening in spite of his best efforts to stay calm.

"We can't," Matsukawa says, hoarsely, hand recoiling. 

"Why can't we?" Hanamaki asks. It's a genuine question, but Matsukawa can hear the mix of frustration, confusion, _hurt_ in Hanamaki's voice. And it stings, really, because Matsukawa isn't sure where to begin in answering. 

(At the back of his mind, when Matsukawa wants to hear him least, Iwaizumi says, _I know he wouldn't resent you for it_.)

Matsukawa flinches when Hanamaki moves closer. "Please don't touch me," he manages, swallowing thickly as he drops his gaze, trying to collect himself before he continues. Trying, with much futility, to ignore the way Hanamaki struggles to hide his scowl. "I'll answer your question. Do you remember why we broke up?" 

Hanamaki doesn't say anything for a second. "Are you being serious?" He clicks his tongue, only once. He's trying to be patient too. "Yeah, how could I not?" 

Matsukawa's heart's racing at this point, legs a little weak, but he forces himself to lift his head. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat again, steeling his features back into a practiced neutrality. "The text you sent me the day after... You were right. When you said it felt like I wasn't telling you something important." Matsukawa exhales once, twice, and it still doesn't feel like enough. "You were right." 

"And you'll tell me now?" asks Hanamaki.

He has to, doesn't he?

Shouldn't he?

"If you'll listen," and he hates it, the way his voice must be betraying the blank look he's trying to wear. 

Neither of them move. The pin-drop silence between them is thick with tension. 

Right then, Hanamaki slides his hand across the countertop, slowly, gingerly, until it's just centimeters from Matsukawa's. Neither of them move. Neither of them say anything. But this time, when Hanamaki clasps his hand over Matsukawa's, the plastic crinkling as a reminder of just what, exactly, is forcing Matsukawa to hesitate, Matsukawa doesn't flinch. "Yeah," Hanamaki says, softer now. "Of course I will." 

They move to the dining room table and sit in chairs across from each other. It's the first time Matsukawa's ever had to tell anyone the whole truth; the first time he's ever had to explain it from the very beginning. Even Iwaizumi, luckily or unluckily, got to see it with his own eyes. He didn't need an explanation, only a promise that the next time Matsukawa cried, it wouldn't be because he was blaming himself for something fundamentally out of his control. 

Matsukawa exhales again. "I don't think I'd ever been in a serious relationship until I met you. And when I realized how much time we'd spent together, it felt like the next step was to think about the future. And the future was something we were meant to share." He manages a smile and wonders after the fact if it's obvious that talking like this is exhausting to him. But Hanamaki is gazing at him so intently, clearly clinging onto each word Matsukawa manages to voice aloud—Matsukawa almost forgets why he was so hesitant in the first place. "I told you I couldn't do that. I couldn't think about the future, at least not one that we could share." 

"Yeah," Hanamaki replies, pursing his lips contemplatively. "Like an asshole," he posits, and in response, Matsukawa manages a more sincere smile. 

"Like an asshole," he echoes. "I lied to you. Back at the hospital, the first time. You asked me if it was a serious accident and I said I didn't know." Matsukawa frowns at the recollection of the memory. The cuts and bruises on Hanamaki's face—now mostly healed. The way Hanamaki's hand had been warm, but closer to cold. "It was. You were probably going to die. You were unconscious and the doctors said it wasn't looking good." 

"But I woke up?" 

"Yeah, you did." Matsukawa's tongue feels heavy, reluctant, as he manages the next admission. "It was my fault." 

Hanamaki stills, his expression twisting into one of uncertainty. "Your fault," he repeats. mostly to himself. "How was it _your fault_ that I woke up?" 

Matsukawa peels the plastic gloves he'd been wearing from his hands, outstretching his palms before his eyes before clenching them into his fists, dropping them back to his lap. "When I was seven, Iwaizumi—you remember him? My best friend. Iwaizumi almost killed my pet goldfish by accident. We were both stupid kids, and he'd been swirling the water in the plastic baggie around until... well, you get it." Matsukawa smiles, faintly, still feels the same remorse he did when he was seven years old. "I held the fish in my hands thinking it was dead and it started flopping back to life out of nowhere. Not even ten seconds after putting it in a proper bowl, I reached in to touch it again and it died. Just like that."

"Alright," Hanamaki says, pressing his cheek against his palm and peering at Matsukawa quizzically. "You brought your goldfish back to life?"

"When I was fifteen," Matsukawa continues, by way of explanation, "my next door neighbor collapsed at the entryway of his apartment. His front door was open. He was dead." This memory isn't as child-like as his first one, and too quickly, it's like a cold rushes to Matsukawa's fingertips. "Iwaizumi went to get his mom and I panicked and ran right up to the old man to see if he was really dead. Accidentally touched his cheek and I think, maybe in a matter of seconds, he got up from where he was sprawled out—asked me why he was lying down at his front door. The ambulance came, but not for him. Someone else died of a heart attack two blocks down, and I think it might have been because of what I did. My neighbor wasn't ever the same after that. He ended up passing away a little while later, but up until that point, it felt like he'd been trying to make sense of why he was still alive." 

This time, Hanamaki doesn't say a word.

"It happened a couple of more times, but never with people. I worked out the general parameters. If I touched someone or something that was dead or dying, they'd come back to life. If they stayed alive, someone else would take their place. And if I touched them again, they'd—" He squeezes his eyes shut, only for a second, like he's trying to stop the flood of doubt threatening to spill past his careful defenses. "They'd die, or go back to dying. And I wouldn't be able to force them awake the second time around." 

Hanamaki nods his head once, slowly, and it's obvious he isn't sure what to make of all of this. It only makes sense. Matsukawa probably sounds like he's talking nonsense, and maybe, in a way, he is. "So, I was dying." 

_Yeah_ , Matsukawa can't bring himself to say aloud.

"And you can't touch me because you think I'll go back to being in critical condition."

 _Yeah_ , Matsukawa cannot say aloud. 

"Oh." Hanamaki crosses his arms against his chest and leans back again, slouching against the chair. "Are you sure?"

Matsukawa lifts his head again. "About?"

"If you did the thing," Hanamaki says. He wiggles his fingers like that's supposed to be clarifying, somehow. "Maybe I just magically got better the second you touched me for other reasons," he suggests. 

"...Like?" 

Hanamaki leans forward, elbows propped on the table, his chin resting in the dip between his outstretched index finger and thumb. "Power of love?" He grins, and it's alarming how easily he's taking all of this in stride. "Nah, I don't know. I, well, it'd be better to say this isn't something I'll ever be able to understand." He drops his hand back to the table, the simper he'd been wearing disappearing slowly, replacing itself with something a little more serious. "I guess it makes sense. Ever since I got out of the hospital, something felt off. Like I was here, but _not here_ at the same time. I'd have weird nightmares about the accident where everything hurt so badly it almost felt real, but I'd wake up and everything would feel fine again." 

"I didn't know," Matsukawa barely manages to say, and his words are so jumbled, so breathless, that they probably sound less like a sentence, an apology, and more like a sigh.

"Yeah, because I didn't tell you," Hanamaki replies. He's smiling again, that same old crooked smile he always wore when they got into their push-and-pulls about how Matsukawa never opened up and instead of really fighting, Hanamaki wanted to say, wordlessly, _never mind—everything's okay._ "Didn't know you had such a bad martyr complex though. I mean, you're basically telling me that the reason why you broke up with me, why you ghosted me, _like an asshole—_ "

"Like an asshole."

"—and the reason why this isn't going to work out, why we can't do this is because you're scared, right? Of hurting me? And not without reason. But you're scared and I get that." Hanamaki's shoulders slump and he hums, thoughtfully. "I get why you didn't tell me, too. And I get why you feel like everything's your fault, but I don't really blame you for this. How can I? I feel like the only reason why I didn't get distracted by how weird I felt these past few weeks is because you were around. The more I thought about you, the less I thought about me." 

"You could be angrier," Matsukawa suggests, the smile he's wearing feeble, helpless. "Could tell me you hate me, if you wanted to."

"I'm pissed," admits Hanamaki, "but only because I want to kiss you." 

Matsukawa meets Hanamaki's gaze as levelly as he can. "Yeah," he says. It hurts to admit it. "Me too. How frustrating." 

Hanamaki laughs, and the sound rings bittersweet. "I have some things to tell you too," he says. "Maybe later. After my mom's birthday—after I fix that ugly cake—take me on a date. I'll tell you then."

It's unspoken, but it already feels like a goodbye. 

But this isn't something he can push back against. So, he doesn't. "Sure," Matsukawa replies. "Let's do that."

"Thanks for telling me," Hanamaki says. "Still think you're an asshole. The good kind, though."

The chill in Matsukawa's hands have faded. If he closes his eyes right now, he might be able to imagine Hanamaki's warmth.

He doesn't.

"Sorry," is all he says instead. It feels like a weight's lifted from his shoulders, but there's still something sharp at his solar plexus that makes it hard to breathe. Maybe if Matsukawa was braver, he could say something more honest, too. And if he was smarter, he could parse through his many disorganized thoughts to discern what Hanamaki wants to hear. And if he was kinder, maybe they wouldn't be here in the first place. Instead— "Hiro," Matsukawa murmurs, the nickname falling from his lips clumsily. This is all he can offer. "Whatever you want." 

Permanence isn't common in this world. Most things have an expiration date.

This—

Hanamaki smiles. "Hah. Don't be weird," he warns. "This doesn't have to be as sad as you're trying to make it." 

This is no exception. 

* * *

"Do you remember Old Man Hirozawa?" Matsukawa asks, voice taut with fatigue. He leans his head against his bedroom door, phone balanced between his ear and his shoulder. 

"Yeah?" Iwaizumi sounds tired too. It's a weird hour, isn't it? Maybe Matsukawa should have checked before calling. "What about him?" 

"If you were me," Matsukawa starts, withholding a sigh. "If you were me and he knew everything... If you were me and he asked you to touch him again, knowing there'd be no third chances, would you do it?" 

Iwaizumi doesn't say anything. A too-long silence passes. "I think so."

"Really?" 

"It's not up to me in the end, is it?" Iwaizumi sounds conflicted too. After all, a human life is precious, fleeting, and fickle. Autonomy over life should belong to the bearer alone, shouldn't it? Even hypothetically, it's hard to know what their convictions ought to be. "I don't know. I can't imagine what I'd actually do."

"Me neither," Matsukawa says. He pauses before adding, "Actually, that's a lie. I think I know what I'd do. It'd just be hard to live with it." It'd be hard to live with it either way. 

"Hey." Iwaizumi hesitates. "You okay?"

He squeezes his eyes shut. Wonders, distantly, if that stupid, dull throb of his heart; the way it beats like it's trying to fill a cavity that's too big for it now, will ever go away. "Yep," Matsukawa replies. Fuck. He could cry. "Just dandy." 

"I know it's easier said than done," Iwaizumi starts, the faintest apologetic tinge lingering in the more delicate ups and downs of his words, "but it's okay to focus on today. Tomorrow, yesterday, they're out of your control." 

"Yeah."

"Sorry," Iwaizumi says, and Matsukawa wonders if this is how Hanamaki felt when he got his apology. 

"Why are you sorry?" Matsukawa asks, cracking a smile. 

"Just am, idiot." Iwaizumi sounds like he might be smiling too. "Wish I could be more help. But hey, I think you're a pretty good person. Annoying in all the worst ways, but no one's perfect. Whatever you do, I know you'll do it thinking it's for the best." 

There are some other things he wants to ask, but he isn't sure how to word them. 

He just thinks that it must be lonely feeling like an in-between existence in a world as bustling as theirs. Thinks it's another curse in itself to not understand what it feels like while being the cause. 

Matsukawa grips his phone a little tighter. "Sure," he says, silencing his thoughts to the best of his ability. "Thanks."

* * *

The day of their date, Hanamaki comes down with a fever. Instead of tiptoeing around each other at some inevitably crowded restaurant or theater, they end up dropping by the hospital instead for a precautionary check-up. Everything comes full circle. He isn't sure if it's poetic or cruel. 

"Nothing serious," Hanamaki says through a yawn, leaning back against the headboard of his hospital bed. "Not quite the romantic getaway I had in mind, but I guess it'll do."

"Shouldn't you get some rest?" Matsukawa asks. He raises a brow when Hanamaki only shrugs his shoulders. "You should get some rest."

"I probably have a cold," Hanamaki continues. He rolls his eyes, goading as always. "They're only worried because they still don't get how I'm awake."

For good reason, too.

"Anyway, I figure I should make sure to tell you something while I have the chance to." Hanamaki folds his hands, rests them against his stomach. He seems impatient today, like he's worried time isn't on their side. It's strange, because in this case, as long as they keep their distance, the only thing they have is time. "I—" The words trap themselves in Hanamaki's mouth. He parts his lips, tries to talk, but nothing comes out—and then, he musters up a hollow laugh. "So, this is how it's going to be," he mutters to himself, jaw clenched. His expression flickers, and Matsukawa thinks he might catch a glimmer of grief. "Hey," Hanamaki says. "I want you to kiss me." 

He knew this was coming, truth be told. Knew that once Hanamaki talked about how he'd felt a little out-of-sort, half-here, half- _not here_ , that in the end, it'd come to this. Because he knew Hanamaki wouldn't compromise with halves. And he knew it'd be like this. 

Matsukawa knew this was coming. From a mile away, too, but he still _doesn't know_ , right down to this very second, how he's supposed to respond; whether he's allowed to. 

"I think I knew from the start that it was weird that I was awake," Hanamaki says, lifting his gaze to the ceiling and then back to Matsukawa. "Before the accident... I was trying to call you. Probably my first time since a little less than a year ago. I don't remember why I thought of you then. Don't even remember why I thought you might pick up. But when I opened my eyes and you were the first person I saw, the absurdity of the situation took a seat on the back-burner." The grin Hanamaki wears is so honest, it makes the severity of the situation lessen for a passing moment. "You know me, I think with my dick."

Just barely, Matsukawa manages to say, "As long as you know." 

"Quiet," Hanamaki chides. "Wish things were a little different, but I'm glad, still, that everything happened the way it did. You kept asking me when I was going back to Tokyo, right? And I never really answered your question. Probably because I thought if there was even the slightest chance that we could fix us, I'd stay here for as long as it took." His grin sobers into something a little more nondescript. "I want you to kiss me, but I'm asking you for this knowing it's not easy. But I'm also asking you because I'm not worried." Resolutely, Hanamaki says, "I'm going to wake up again." 

Matsukawa, age seven, touched his goldfish twice; held it in his palms, lifeless, on two distinct occasions, separated by minutes, maybe seconds.

He knows he touched Hanamaki's hand when Hanamaki wasn't quite dead, and he knows if he touches Hanamaki again, he'll go back to being just that— _not quite dead_. But there are always risk, uncertainties, and fears when it comes to gambling with life. Matsukawa isn't sure where Hanamaki gets his confidence from, but he also isn't sure if this is his place to question it.

"You might not remember anything from the past few weeks if—" Matsukawa shakes his head, already feels himself losing. "— _when_ you do." 

"Then we can start over." 

"Things might not turn out the same way."

Hanamaki laughs, reaching out to take Matsukawa's gloved hand in his. He lifts it, presses Matsukawa's palm to his own cheek, draws it to his lips—just once—before locking eyes with Matsukawa. "Look me in the eye. You really don't think you'll fall for someone as hot as me again?" 

Matsukawa smiles, faintly. "That's not what I—"

"I know," Hanamaki interjects. He drops his hand from Matsukawa's, reaching forward instead. "I want you to kiss me, but I want you to know that I'm asking you for three reasons. Because I trust you, because I know you, and because this isn't the last time I'll see you. Got it? I warned you not to make it weird. This isn't as sad as you think it is." 

Very few things in life are permanent. Very few things are certain. 

Hanamaki's confidence is so steadfast that Matsukawa lets himself get swept up in it.

"Sure," Matsukawa says, biting his tongue so hard it might bleed. "Okay." 

"Here, while we're at it, I'll make a wish for you," Hanamaki says, his fingers curling into the lapels of Matsukawa's shirt, drawing him in. "Hope when I go to sleep, I take your stupid curse with me. And when I wake up and I find you again, I hope your curse stays asleep. If the deities are listening and if they have a shred of pity in them—"

Closer. _Closer_. 

Their breaths lace. 

"—I hope they take this as their offering." Hanamaki smiles, and when their lips touch, Matsukawa can feel that very same smile against his. "See you soon, Issei." 

Matsukawa closes his eyes. "Sure, Hiro." The nickname falls from his lips clumsily, desperately, and the warmth that lingers feels like a promise. "Whenever you want." 

* * *

Affliction (n.), something that causes pain or suffering. Similar words include malady, trouble, thorn in one's side, one's cross to bear.

He's twenty-five when it happens for the last time.

* * *

Hanamaki's okay.

The worst of the injuries have subsided, and by the time Matsukawa hears about his recovery, he imagines Hanamaki's already made his way back to Tokyo. It's likelier than not that the weeks Hanamaki spent traipsing the line between _alive_ and _hardly so_ have been forgotten; memories, dream-like, locked away somewhere safe. Ideally so. _For the better._

Matsukawa doesn't look for him. Not yet, at least. There's a time and place for everything, and neither seem to be right here or right now. And a part of it might be because he's not confident; another part might be because he's starting to doubt whether he imagined everything up himself—but he promises himself: _soon_ , someday. In the future. 

But the truth is that universe has always been a little kinder to Matsukawa, perhaps out of pity. It seems to go out of its way to show him that it's okay to indulge, to chase, to want. 

The mart is noisy at this hour, the indistinct clamor of passersby and the squeaking of shopping carts grating and calming at the same time. 

He reaches for a container of strawberries while he's absentmindedly scrolling through his phone. Someone's hand—probably reaching for the same thing—brushes against Matsukawa's, and Matsukawa instinctively lets go, lifting his head to acknowledge the stranger—

"Oh," he murmurs. His voice catches in his throat when he realizes it's not a stranger, after all.

"Shit," Hanamaki grumbles to himself, the tips of his ears a faint pink as he extends the strawberries to Matsukawa sheepishly. "Sorry. You can have them. And, uh, long time no see?" 

_Ah._ Hanamaki doesn't remember. 

The complicated bundle of emotions Matsukawa had been carrying loosens, untangles. He'd wondered if he'd feel relief or disappointment upon seeing Hanamaki again.

This feeling—it might be gratitude. 

"Hey," Matsukawa finally manages to say. He pushes the carton back toward Hanamaki, their fingers touching again. "It has been a while. Over a year?" 

"Yeah," Hanamaki says quickly. He fidgets, looking vaguely uncomfortable, and then he shifts to drop the container into Matsukawa's basket. "I'm going to be in Sendai for a bit. Long story short, I just got out of the hospital a little while ago, and I promised my parents I'd stick around until they're ready to let me go back to Tokyo."

"You look well," Matsukawa observes, the corners of his lips twitching once, discreetly. "Good, even."

Hanamaki's expression is incredulous, but then he grins. "You don't have to try to flatter me. This is my third day in a row wearing this hoodie." 

Matsukawa shrugs. "I mean it." 

Their conversation falters for a second before Hanamaki fidgets, his gaze flitting from Matsukawa's face to something far-off. "Listen, if you want to catch up or something—"

"Sounds good," Matsukawa says. He pushes his hand into the pocket of his jacket and closes it into a fist, a feeble attempt at clinging onto what lingers of Hanamaki's warmth. It fades, but Matsukawa doesn't mourn it. The smile on his lips is easy, and this time, he remembers to say, "Missed you."

* * *

(In a present life, someone plucks the thorn from his side, the weight from his shoulders, and wraps it up in an ornate box. No one touches it. The box collects dust. In fine print, probably: _Do not disturb! Zzzz..._ )

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be for halloween but i am late, per usual. thank you for reading! i know it was a bit of a heavier (?) read compared to the other fics i've published, but i think something about the cold weather and the el*ction have really gotten me into a mood... still, i hope you enjoyed! thank you!


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